


The Banquet

by linaerys



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the_eagle_kink prompt Marcus and Esca go to Rome post movie. They go to a big Roman party-slash-orgy and someone promptly slips something into Esca's wine. He's doped up and really friendly with Marcus, while Marcus is very sternly admonishing himself not to take advantage of him</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Banquet

Of course, they can’t do whatever they want. The Emperor has extended an invitation to banquet with him in Rome, and Marcus cannot fail to answer the summons. They pass the winter in Calleva, recovering from their wounds and the toll that travel took on their bodies. Esca still acts as Marcus’s body-servant, but now Marcus pays him a generous handful sesterces every week.

They hunt skinny deer over the winter months, with arrows or spears, competing for the first kill. It is enjoyable, but a restless time, waiting for spring to bring with it obligations to Rome, and an answer to the delayed question—what next?

They journey as soon as the Channel is safe, making an easy crossing, and a long overland journey through the provinces of Gaul and then down into Italy.

They enter Rome through the Mugonian gate on the Palatine Hill as evening is coming on. Even after their travels, the scale of the city is daunting, and the heat oppressive in the late afternoon. Esca glances around warily. No matter how often Marcus assures him that they enter the city as heroes today, Esca still looks as though he is walking into a trap.

Marcus’s mother lives in one of the old Flavian homes on the city-facing side of the hill. The Aquilae are a minor equestrian branch of the Flavian _gens_ , which, at full flower put three emperors on the throne, but now has retreated somewhat from the spotlight. The neighborhood is not terribly fashionable, but safe enough, and with wide enough streets that the sky can still be glimpsed overhead. Esca keeps well away from the walls as though they might fall in on him. Marcus’s mother’s house is only three turns off the main avenue but Esca still says, “It’s like a labyrinth.”

“You’ll get your bearings soon enough,” Marcus answers, and at Esca’s look he adds, “We won’t be here long.”

That earns him a slight smile, the first Esca’s worn since they passed through the gates, although Esca has been a pleasant travel companion until now. Seeing the miles between Calleva and Rome through Esca’s eyes was a gift to Marcus. When they traveled through Etruria, Marcus mentioned that his family’s ancestral farm was here, although now in strangers’ hands.

“It is a beautiful land,” said Esca, and Marcus’s heart swelled with pride.

A well-dressed slave answers the door of the house, and Marcus’s mother and stepfather greet them in the courtyard. Even Marcus’s stepfather is happy to see him. Marcus has witnessed enough of his pinched smiles to know a real one when it lights his well-fed features.

“Marcus,” he says after Marcus’s mother has done her hugging and petting and clucking over his leg, “and the famous Esca. I bid you welcome.” Marcus and Esca exchange a look at that—famous? “There are people who want to meet you,” he continues, fairly rubbing his hands together at the prospect.

“I’ve readied your room. Will your freedman be content to share?” Marcus’s mother asks. Her face betrays some fear, and Esca isn’t helping—he hasn’t said two words since they entered Marcus’s house.

Esca nods, and Marcus says, “He’s my brother. Of course we can share.”

The first few days are a whorl of shopping, and visitors, but he and Esca manage to take themselves off to the baths one afternoon to escape the constant round of guests who want to say they’ve met Marcus and Esca more than they actually want to talk with them.

These are local, neighborhood baths, and no more impressive than those at Calleva, except perhaps more brilliantly tiled. They spend most of their time in the _frigidarium_ , as it’s too warm for anything else. Esca has put back little of the weight their travels have taken off him—he’s still all whipcord and wiry muscle. He swims a blunt stroke across the pool, untrained but strong.

“When do you think your popularity will grow less?” Esca asks as they sit in the shallows. The water smells stale and dusty, like the stone cistern where it’s been stored, but at least it’s cool.

“Sometime soon after the banquet, I’m sure,” says Marcus. “We won’t tarry too long here.” He doesn’t ask again, the question that won’t leave his mind—what it is that Esca wants, and if there is any room for him in those plans?

The few times he brought it up on their travels, Esca brushed him off, and now Marcus has grown worried that after their duties to the Empire are discharged, Esca will go his own way, leaving Marcus to he knows not what--some life that will have less savor without Esca in it.

“They people we meet--they can do favors for you?” Esca asks.

“Some of them,” Marcus replies, surprised at the question.

Esca swims away and says nothing more, which surprises Marcus less. He will keep his own counsel until some plan springs full grown from his lips, like Minerva from Jupiter’s head.

*

The banquet begins in late afternoon, at the height of the day’s heat. The hall is crowded with couches around a vast table, piled high with fruit, carafes of wine, and various small delicacies for guests to amuse themselves with before the banquet courses start arriving. Two dwarf acrobats cavort near the entrance. As Marcus removes his cloak, he hears a woman sniff and say, “Antoninus is a frugal host these days.”

Marcus looks around. This is more sumptuous than anything he’s experienced. Slaves stand in the windows waving fans over bowls of cold water, so the room is hot, but not intolerable. Marcus and Esca share a large couch close to the front of the room, and the emperor’s empty one. A slave keeps their plates always full of the best delicacy. Marcus watches as Esca warily samples the food, but he relaxes when he sips his first glass of wine.

There is extra space around them so various guests can meet them, and hear snippets of the story that Marcus has long grown tired of repeating. He does not want to share the cold, and pain, and terror of the journey, those awful days when he believed Esca had turned on him, and clung only to the hope that he could by Esca’s death with his own. He had no illusions he would long survive that fight.

Now, Marcus owes every step of that journey to Esca. _I didn’t just bring back the eagle. I brought back Esca’s friendship,_ is the story that matters. But not the one the banquet guests want to hear. So instead he speaks of blue painted warriors and chill, haunted forests.

The guests ask Esca things like, “Why did you follow him?” as though Esca did much of the following. Unspoken: why didn’t you run or kill him when you had a chance?

“His father’s honor seemed a worthy pursuit,” is how Esca answers that, his even gaze and the harsh notes of his accent inviting no additional questions.

Emperor Antoninus does not enter the banquet until the second course has been cleared. Marcus had been moderating his drinking and advised Esca to do so as well. Antoninus will not stay long—his beloved wife died only six months prior, and he still mourns. Indeed, his eyes are deeply shadowed when he enters the hall. His dress is simple, though rich.

“We salute you, Marcus Flavius Aquila,” he says after Marcus and Esca rise and make the formulas of obeisance. “We have had little to celebrate this year, so your happy news was as music to our ears.”

“May I present my friend Esca? Without him I would be dead in the Calendonian highlands, and the eagle still lost,” says Marcus.

“We thank you,” says the Emperor. “How did you find the Caledonians?”

“Wild,” says Marcus. “But not without honor.” Something from that land lodged in his heart, the harsh and untamed beauty, the people wresting life from such wild country.

“We have heard nothing but horror from that place,” says Emperor Antoninus. “Should they not be punished for the death of the ninth?” He looks into the distance. “It will not be restored, young man. Soldiers are too superstitious to serve under that banner.”

That hurts less than Marcus thought it would. He would not be fit for command, not with a leg that would keep him from leading the brave sorties that would win him honor. Let the ninth die with his father.

“We shall build another wall, further north,” the Emperor continues. “Romans should not fear their own border. I would send you to build it for me, since you are the only Roman to master that place.” He turned to Esca. “We will find you a place, too, Briton.”

He gives a short speech to the assembly praising Marcus, and by extension the bravery of the legions—few in power will miss the opportunity to praise the kingmakers—then leaves the banquet again. Under the rush of talk that accompanies his going, Esca asks, “Another wall? Hasn’t Rome enough of those?”

Marcus is saved from answering by the pantomime that begins, showing a highly fictionalized account of Marcus and Esca’s travels. Marcus notes with some embarrassment that all the native women go bear breasted, and on the margins of the stage, engage in acts of puplic copulation with the blue-painted warriors. Marcus looks to Esca to see if he is surprised, or offended, to see his countrywomen represented so, but Esca seems to have missed their appearance while draining his glass. A slave hurries over and refills it for him.

Esca smiles languidly as the slave leaves, and relaxes bonelessly against Marcus. They are already reclining together on their couch, so it’s not much more contact when Esca presses into him, but it’s sudden enough that Marcus looks over, surprised at the increase in warmth.

“This wine is good,” says Esca in Briton. Even though Marcus has grown much more proficient in the tongue during their travels, Esca has scrupulously spoken only Latin since they entered the city, so this lapse is unexpected. “I’ve not had its like before,” he adds.

Marcus takes the glass from his hand and has a sip. It’s fairly indifferent wine, but yes, there it is, the subtle shift of his vision as some ingredient other than alcohol hits his blood. And Esca has had a whole glass of it. Marcus looks around and sees a woman across the table raise her cup in salute. “Esca,” says Marcus, “I think you have an admirer.” He tilts his chin up. “The wine is likely from her.”

“Hmmm?” says Esca sleepily. His eyes are half lidded, his gaze lowered to Marcus’s mouth. It’s terribly distracting, so much so that Marcus doesn’t notice that the woman has left her seat until she’s perched on the end of their couch.

“My lady,” Marcus says in greeting, sitting up. Although now that she’s joined them on the couch, he has no need to stand and give a proper welcome. She’s young enough, but Marcus doesn’t like the look of her—too painted, too bored. “I believe she’s here for you.”

“Why?” Esca asks, still in Briton.

Marcus presses his lips together. “Because I’m not the only one who is popular right now.” Marcus can well imagine it—taking a famous, barbarian, former slave to bed would be a mark of achievement to her, something she could giggle over with her friends.

“But I want to stay here with you,” Esca says, this time in Latin. The woman makes an expression halfway between amused and annoyed and walks off without a word. “You’re mine. I have to watch out for you.”

“I’m yours?” Marcus asks, chuckling. That puts a new complexion on their interactions all these months; if he is some great and ill-trained pet that Esca has adopted, it explains much.

“Yes, mine.” And he nuzzles against Marcus’s shoulder. All those half-slumbering thoughts of Esca, the desires he’d tamped down before he could name them, rose up, hot and demanding over the languor of the wine.

“Esca,” he says gently, fighting himself. “You’re drugged. That woman wanted you . . . peaceful, I guess. You don’t know what—”

“I know,” says Esca, sounding more awake now. “It’s you who doesn’t want to say. Please.”

Mithras forefend that he should ever deny Esca when he looked like that, eyes huge and clear in his pale face. “Not here,” says Marcus, mouth suddenly dry.

Esca smiles, pure and open. “When can we leave, then?”

As soon as the pantomime is over seems soon enough. They collect their cloaks and spill out into the night. The falling darkness has not brought relief from the heat, though; it’s a wanton night, just a hint of a breeze from time to time to stir the sultry air.

Esca twines his hand through Marcus’s as soon as they leave the door’s halo of light. Marcus wants to ask a million things: when, why, how did you know you wanted me? And Esca is pliable enough right now he might tell.

He wonders if Esca is capable of being like this sober, if his guard could ever come down enough. After tonight, after only this, hands caressed together, skin lightly skimming skin, Marcus would pledge his whole life to making Esca happy enough to be this free.

Esca raises Marcus’s hand to his lips. “Please,” he says again.

“You don’t have to ask,” says Marcus roughly. “You never have to ask.” He pulls Esca to him against the wall and slumps down along it so he doesn’t tower over him too much. It’s a clumsy kiss, with too much laughing, hands going everywhere. Esca trying to climb him.

“You’re too tall,” says Esca with their mouths still touching. He tastes like wine and the heaviness of the opiate.

“You’re too impatient,” says Marcus, although if taking him right here weren’t an invitation to being murdered where they rut against each other, Marcus would, dirty stones and decorum be damned. “You’re drugged,” he says again, more gently. “I don’t want to . . .”

“I know what I want,” he says, with the same stubborn set of chin he wore while a slave. “Do you?”

He runs his hand down Marcus’s stomach until he finds where Marcus is growing stiff under his tunic. “I think you do.”

Marcus swallows hard. “Yes. And we’d best get home. It’s not safe to linger here after dark.”

They stop only a few more times along the way, until Marcus hears footsteps pacing their own. No real threat, but it’s good to be inside the door. Marcus’s mother and stepfather are still at the banquet. Marcus spares a thought to hope that they’re making all the political connections they could ever desire, and then pulls Esca into his room.

Esca helps him undress hastily, not, this time, with the impersonal hands of a slave. Marcus feels a shock each time his hands find skin. When Marcus is naked in front of Esca, it’s not as it was before at the baths, or when he was ill and Esca’s hands stripped and washed him daily. Now Esca truly _looks_ at him, eyes lingering as they never did before. He takes off his own tunic then crosses to Marcus, licking and biting his way down Marcus’s chest until he sinks to his knees, looking up at Marcus.

 _I never had you like this,_ Marcus wants to say, _but I wanted to._ But he never had Esca in any way before now, and perhaps Esca would not like a reminder of being a slave.

Marcus is too sensitive from the teasing touches on their walk home, and he’s hardly inside Esca’s hot mouth before he’s trying to pull away, so he can come into his hand. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, but Esca holds him there, steely strength too much for Marcus’s shaking legs to fight against, and Esca’s mouth swallows him until there’s nothing left.

When he’s done, Esca pulls Marcus down onto his narrow pallet. Esca is hard, and Marcus encircles him in his hand, enjoying the way Esca’s gasps as Marcus touches him. The skin of his neck is smooth under Marcus’s lips, so pale it reddens easily from his kisses. He wants to do this forever. Esca doesn’t seem to be in the hurry that Marcus was before, but after long minutes of caressing he looks up at Marcus and says, “I want you. As man takes another man. You know how it is done?”

Esca is blindingly direct even when sober and now—Marcus flushes, grateful for the darkness that hides his embarrassment. He knows very well, both parts in that dance.

“Yes,” he says. “You?”

“I know.” Esca’s lips curve invitingly, lit by the single lamp in the window. Marcus feels a wave of blinding hate for whoever has been here before him, but it passes as quickly, and then his world is only this: Esca’s hand slicking him with oil, Esca’s legs wrapped around him, Esca guiding him home.

He looks up into Marcus’s eyes as Marcus enters him, a too-intimate sharing that Marcus wants to look away from. Marcus suffers a vivid memory of his surgery, of Esca staring down at him, daring him to blink, to crawl inside himself away from the blade and that searing look.

Marcus looked then; he won’t look away now, even as he’s terrified that Esca will see something in his eyes that will send him running, taking Marcus’s heart with him. Esca is the one whose eyes he finds in a crowded room, on a desolate plain, anywhere. So he watches as Esca’s eyes go black in dim light, sees his mouth slacken with pleasure, sees the wave of sensation break upon him almost before he feels Esca tightening around him.

“Marcus,” says Esca, sounding lost. Then Marcus breaks the eye contact to draw him close. Esca bites his neck before he comes, hard enough to sting, and that pushes Marcus over the edge again, pulling Esca’s hips to him and falling into him.

*

Marcus wakes on his side, wrapped around Esca, with Esca’s legs still tangled in his. His foot is asleep, so he disengages, quietly, trying to leave Esca to his rest, but Esca’s eyes open as Marcus’s warmth leaves him. He looks confused for a moment, and then a satisfied little smile curves his lips.

“You,” he says, while Marcus splashes his face with water. “Would you have let her have me? Drugged?”

“She wouldn’t have hurt you,” says Marcus. He comes back to bed. Esca’s hair is ridiculously, adorably mussed, and Marcus’s heart swells to look at him. He traces a finger over Esca’s bare shoulder, following it with kisses. “Why shouldn’t you have a woman?”

“You wouldn’t have minded?”

He flips Esca over so he’s on top, supporting himself on his arms. Esca reaches up to tries to pull more of Marcus’s weight down onto him. “I would have minded. But I would have let you go.”

“Don’t let me go. That’s not what I want,” says Esca

“What _do_ you want?” Marcus asks.

“Right now? I want to take you,” Esca tilts his head to the side, holding Marcus’s gaze. “Would you let me?” He asks it curiously, as if a ‘no’ would be as good as a ‘yes’, just another piece of information, but Marcus is holding him, can feel the wild-bird trembling in his skin, see in his eyes that it matters, very much.

Were it widely known it might shame him, but between him and Esca there is no shame, and there is no part of Marcus that wants to deny him. So Marcus says yes, yes, always yes.


End file.
